Nº 5 of 12

This is what the saucepan said:
“On this occasion it is a refusal
and not a denial;
I would love to boil”

The water wept its usual
refused to step in

“You have letters after your name
and you are still transparent!”
yelled a potato
from its tasteless raw white heart

his cousin, a stuck-in-the-mud something
hummed a mumble, nudged his brother

“Only the suffering sing”
whistled a knife
in shrill profile
then turned
nasty

“Knives have intentions”, he said
“but spoons by their nature
are sad creatures
with their metallic lick me like smug
comfort moon mouth mirrors
their silver under bellies
their lip service surface
baby baiters, two faced stirrers,
you know what you are?
Dummies with queenie quaintness
soup suitors you love the sound of your self
ringing in the bowl, scraping the patents
spilling the beans, idle ladles
polite with the china, on your back in a saucer
accessory to the tea cup classes
groped in truck stops
displayed in cases, mixing grease and cream
Whose hot breath will tarnish your convexity?
In your faceless concave what do you reflect upon?”

There was silence in the kitchen

But what do you say to a knife
when he’s crying
when he’s staring straight at you
and the tears are ready
to run down the flat of his blade?

Say this: say
“I will lick you side ways”

His point may be quick and twisted
his handle worn
by the clutches of bitter fists
take him to one side
to the cheek of his metal
whisper a kiss